Page 24 of Sweet Caroline
“So, he’s your ex, obviously.” The wheels turn behind his eyes like he’s making sense of what he just witnessed. “And, y’know, a self-important, dickhead, pretty-boy type. Gathered that much. But what was all the stuff about an arrangement and a hotel and shit?”
I can’t seem to find the words, yet my shoulders almost sag with relief that Miles sized Fletcher up so quickly. “That photo of us,” I finally manage. “Me and you, I mean. It was bad timing for my dad. Fletcher and I hadn’t gone public about breaking up yet. We were trying not to rock the boat. For the campaign.”
He nods. “And the photo rocked the boat.”
“Exactly,” I say, both grateful he gets it and momentarily distracted by the way the light catches on a small scar at the corner of his mouth. “Anyway, Dad’s PR firm suggested we double down on being seen together as a couple. Overnight in a hotel… I guess it would make us look like a stable, happy family?” It’s the image my father has always held dear—carefully curated for public consumption.
“And now?” he asks. “Is pretending I’m your boyfriend gonna help smooth everything over somehow?”
“Well,” I say, begging myself to play it cool, “I guess it wouldn’t seem like something so… casual?”
“Okay, yeah. Makes sense, I guess.” He nods again, contemplating me as a long silence settles between us. “What’d he do? To you, I mean.” He seems to catch himself and his eyes widen. “Sorry, that’s a super personal question. Didn’t mean to be that asshole. Forget I asked.”
“No, it’s fine. I roped you into this mess; it’s only fair I explain why.” I pause, trying to shrug off the stress of standing up to Fletcher. “We weren’t…” I shake my head, then start again. “I mean, my family approved. Our relationship was good on paper.” I puff out an exhale, hating how that sounded—and the way it made Miles grimace. “But then I found out last month he’d been cheating on me.”
Miles clenches his jaw, his expression falling.
“Repeatedly,” I add.
He looks out the gallery window, then lets out a long sigh. “Well, now I kinda wish I’d punched him before he left.”
A surprised laugh bubbles up from my chest, pulling a smirk to Miles’ lips when he faces me again. “Nowthatwould be a PR nightmare.”
“I was joking, to be clear. I don’t go around punching assholes. Like, generally speaking.”
“Okay,” I say.
For a moment, we just stand there, holding eye contact, and a knot of tension takes root in my belly.
What was I thinking?
It’s one thing to be caught on camera talking to a hot stranger, but it’s entirely next level to lean into a flimsy rumor and invite him into my family drama—while under scrutiny from the media, no less. But the thought of spending a phony romantic evening at Fletcher’s side seemed monumentally worse than taking a chance on said hot stranger.
“Sorry, again, for dragging you into this. It’s not too late to back out.”
“No way. Now I gotta see what all the fuss is about.” He winks, and that smirk is back, pulling my attention to his lips, the square line of his jaw, and the cleft at the center of his chin under all the stubble. I school my features, trying to shake off the way Miles somehow flusters me without even trying.
This is business. Practical. A PR move to get the press off my back. Nothing more.
“Are you completely sure?” I ask.
“Yeah. You’re stuck with me now, fancy girl.”
The numberof times I have to pull my attention away from the construction site across the street after Miles leaves is borderline ludicrous. He needed to get back to work, so we’d quickly exchanged numbers and I’d promised to text him about Saturday. Then, I’d watched him jog across the street—definitelynotadmiring how he looked from behind in those worn jeans.
A few patrons wander in and I show them around, grateful for the distraction, although I find myself motioning at the paintings on autopilot, not really thinking too hard about the well-rehearsed spiel coming out of my mouth. Despite myself, my eyes drift, once again seeking out a glimpse of Miles through the front window. In a truly embarrassing turn of events, my breath catches when I think I spot him carrying a load of lumber over one shoulder.
What’s next? Swooning? Fainting?
I need to get my head on straight before Saturday night. This fundraiser is going to be… rough. The idea of Miles mingling with my parents doesn’t exactly give me warm fuzzies. And with Fletcher there, probably throwing me salty glances at every opportunity, I know I’m in for a world of awkwardness.
At least Adrian will be in my corner; God knows I need an ally in this whole mess.
But spending the evening with Miles? For some reason, that part doesn’t feel as fraught. There’s an easy openness to him—this up-for-anything energy that’s both wholly unfamiliar and almostmagnetic. He makes me believe I could be like that. Maybe I used to be.
And his deep voice… The soft sibilance each time he lands on an S. When he drops his voice low, it’s like the ocean waves rolling gently over pebbles, somehow ragged and smooth at the same time. Rough with texture but time-worn, like any edges have been eroded away.
Okay, so, swooning and fainting might not beentirelyoff the table.
